Thursday, March 9, 2017

Oh No - Not Again

'Member those arrogant assholes I told you about? The financial elite who congregate at O's?

There is a sign in the window that says "If you earn less than $250,000 a year, you do NOT belong here."

No word of a lie.

These fucking people pay $15 for macaroni and cheese. (Editor's note: If I had the cash I would gladly pay $15 for macaroni and cheese. I want so badly to be admitted into O's society. I want to be one of them. I want to earn $251,000. I want to pop in for overpriced drinks and foods on a whim. Any old whim. Without regard to the word budget).

Sometimes at work I get relegated to shoe duty. Gotta go downstairs and sift through hundreds of pairs of shoes to separate those that should be discarded from those that will be sold.

You would not believe the disgusting condition of shoes some people donate. Some covered in mold and excrement. (I may be exaggerating a bit).

In truth I don't mind this duty. Downstairs I am entirely alone and out of view. No ancient co-workers; no asswipe customers, no cameras. And I take advantage of the situation.

If I am down there for three hours I probably put in one hour's worth of work. I spend the rest of the time daydreaming, plotting and planning for the day (very soon) when I burst upon the scene, rich and rewarded, as the next pretentious literary lion.

You would think that working for an organization that does such meaningful work, an organization that provides assistance to homeless families, you would think that working for these people would inspire a commitment that precludes goofing off. That goofing off would feel like an irredeemable crime.

Not in my mind. As I sift through shoes, I contemplate the words "wasted potential". This provides the fuel to disconnect myself from the situation and allows me to goof off, like I would at any other demeaning job (of which there have been many).

But I digress.

The room is below ground. There is a picture window at ground level just about even with my head.

Just the other day I was down there, gazing out the window, when I noticed a crowd of people converging on the lawn that stretches out in front of the window. As they got closer I recognized them as O's patrons.

It wasn't hard. They were all well dressed, at least by Concord, NH standards - they were all holding overpriced cocktails. One carried a plate of apps. Very expensive apps.

And they were all laughing. At me. And calling out "Hey thrift shop boy, how's it going? Makin' any money?"

They came up close and pressed their noses up against the window; some flipped me off. A couple of the bold ones dropped their pants and smooshed their asses up against the window.

I was impressed with the creamy smooth complexion of their ass cheeks, obviously well tended.

I shouted angrily, I flipped them off but that only made them laugh harder. I tried tears, angling for empathy - they laughed even harder, pointing at me and shouting "Look at the wussy boy cry. Are you crying because you make $9.50 an hour? Are you crying because you wish you could afford to eat at O's? Are you crying because you are not us?"

That's when I started shouting "I am not done yet. I am just beginning my second act. I will make a name for myself. I will make good money. I will buy Italian leather shoes."

They did not hear most of what I said. I heard one of them say "How fucking delusional"; they turned away and walked back towards their fucking pretentious restaurant before I even got to the "yet".

These people torment me. You say, "Thrift shop boy - do not let them into your head". Too late; too fucking late. They are always there.

Whipping me, beating me, holding me back and keeping me down.

I will have my revenge. I will get famous. They will want to buy me drinks. They will want to buy me dinner.

I will let them; I will order only the most expensive drinks, the most expensive food.